


Redamancy

by Imagine_Darksiders



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Kissing, Masturbation, Mild Smut, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Self-Hatred, Undead, Undead have a human kink I guess, mentions of face-sitting, mentions of oral sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Darksiders/pseuds/Imagine_Darksiders
Summary: Draven is in love, lust and all the strange, confusing emotions caught in between. He's decided that he wants to be with you. Unfortunately for him, he approaches Death on the matter.





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with having a human in the Eternal Throne, is that whenever they visit, they’re suddenly bound to become the centre of attention. There’s something to be said about the aesthetically pleasing softness of a human being that entrances the undead residents.

Many a time, Draven; the Blademaster and ex-human warrior has had to cuff his recruits around the back of the head when he catches their pale, sallow eyes fixated on the human as it trots after Death, past the training arena and onto the Chancellor’s balcony. Draven would growl at his fellow undead, guide their stance back into place and then, he’d turn his own eyes subtly to follow after you.

You have _no_ idea what you do to him.

Over the last few weeks since you’d first arrived at the Eternal Throne, seeking his King’s council, you and Draven had stuck up something of a friendship. You seemed to find familiarity in him, and in you, he found a chance to feel human again. _Truly_ human. It’s a gift that he’s not certain he deserves.

When you touch him in passing, a hand on the shoulder or a playful smack to his arm when he’s being deliberately impudent, he’s filled with memories of another time. In one touch, you make him recall every man and woman he’s ever loved, the scent of their hair, the feel of their hand in his. But then, your small, feathery fingers leave his cold, unfeeling skin and the world is plunged into miserable greyness once more.

After a long, lonely few days spent internally wrestling with himself and his own emotions, Draven finally decides that he can’t bear the thought of letting you slip through his fingers without at least trying to tell you what you’ve come to mean to him. Because he’s damn well sure that once all this business with the Well of Souls is cleared up, your visits to The Eternal Throne will cease altogether. So, with that in mind, the Blademaster swallows his pride and approaches the one creature in existence who’d likely pose an obstacle.

Death, himself.

Draven can’t be sure how much the times had changed on Earth since _he_ was alive, but he can’t rightly bear the concept of going about this improperly. And in lieu of an appropriate father figure, Death’s permission would have to be granted if Draven has any hope of courting you.

“More likely to get blood from a stone,” the Blademaster grumbles dismally as he stalks up to the horseman who’d just begun to ascend the rickety old staircase up to the King’s throne room. You, meanwhile, have busied yourself with ‘pestering’ Ostegoth, as Death had once put it. But it couldn’t be more obvious that the old goat hardly minds. The two of you would often seek council in each other, specifically regarding the common ground you share, having both been left alive as the last of your species.

Lifting his hand in greeting, Draven halts Death’s ascension of the stairs in a hushed tone. “Horseman, a word?”

Slowly, gracefully, Death swings his head back over a shoulder to appraise the undead warrior coolly. Beneath the mask, the horseman raises an eyebrow. It’s certainly unusual for the Blademaster to approach _him_. The more he watches Draven, the more Death realises how shifty he’s being. His eyes keep flicking over to monitor you, as though making sure you’re still preoccupied with Ostegoth and then, they land on Death once more. Curious now, the Reaper turns his body to face Draven and gives him a slight nod to proceed.

“Ah,” the Blademaster scuffs his boot awkwardly against the wood, “Perhaps somewhere a little more….” Once again, his eyes briefly linger on you. “… _Discreet_?”

The horseman makes a show of rolling his eyes and sighing deeply, as though he’s being thoroughly inconvenienced, but gestures, all the same, for Draven to lead on.

Skulking back across the courtyard, The Blademaster takes Death to the furthest wall, beside the entrance and finally wheels about to face him. The horseman appears to be both bemused and slightly exasperated.

“This is unlike you, Blademaster,” he remarks when they draw to a halt, “All this sneaking around. People will talk.”

Draven ignores the jest in favour of drawing upon all virtually non existent charisma. “I need to talk to you.”

“ _No_. Really?”

“It’s about Y/n.”

Had Draven been slightly denser, he might have remarked upon the way Death’s demeanour twitches from placid to defensive in the blink of an eye.

“What’s this about?” Death rumbles stiffly, trying to keep a gravelly growl from his voice.

The Blademaster immediately raises his bandage-wrapped hands and motions for the horseman to relax. “If you think she's in any trouble,” he chuckles, “you’re dead wrong.”

With a soft huff, Death unclenches his fists and folds his arms over each other. Wordlessly, he grunts, an indication for Draven to speak.

The warrior nods gratefully. “I’ve a…favour to ask, in regards to your little friend.”

“Y/n is a perfectly capable adult,” the horseman replies, “Whatever it is, I’m sure you can ask-”

“I wish to _court_  her, Reaper.”

The atmosphere in the courtyard turns, if at all possible, infinitely darker.

Both horseman and undead stare at each other for a long moment before the former breaks the uneasy silence.

“Absolutely _not_.”

This has Draven drawing his head back in mild surprise. “Excuse me?”

“You have _ears_ , warrior. Best you start using them. I believe I said ‘ _No_.’”

In reality, the Blademaster really should have anticipated a negative answer, but he’d been so full of hope for the first time in centuries. To have it snatched away like a flickering flame extinguished by a cold, winter’s wind just seemed wholly unfair. Crossing his arms, Draven levels a defiant glare at Death. “Oh? Thought you said Y/n’s a capable adult?”

The horseman shrugs. “I’ve been known to change my mind….On occasion.”

“How convenient,” the undead snarls. He catches the glimmer of sympathy in the Reaper’s eyes when that sunset stare passes over him.

“Draven,” Death sighs, “I’ve a lot of respect for you and your skill as a warrior _and_ you’ve been a useful ally in my quest. _But_ …” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to where you stand, still chatting away with Ostegoth, blissfully unaware, “There are far more pressing things for that little human to worry about than the affections of a _ghost_.”

The Blademaster bristles and gnashes his teeth resentfully. “So _that’s_ your excuse?” he growls, “You may be powerful, horseman. But even _you_ can’t decide what Y/n should and shouldn’t worry about.”

“You asked me for my permission, Blademaster, and I’ve elected to deny you,” Death hisses commandingly. When Draven looks as though he’s about to argue, the horseman cuts him off in a fierce tone. “That’s the last I expect to hear on the matter! You would do well to remember who you’re speaking to. Now, I don’t want Y/n to get wind of this. You’re to keep these thoughts to yourself, am I _clear_?”

Draven’s fists clench so tightly, if he had blood left in him, it would pour from both palms where his nails puncture the skin. He doesn’t answer, instead glancing over the horseman’s shoulder to see you, now facing his way. You wave uncertainly, but before he can return a wave of his own, Draven’s view is obstructed by a protective horseman. Death’s eyes hold the his with fierce authority.

“I asked you a question,” the Reaper bites out.

“And I’ll give you an answer, if _you_ answer a question of mine,” Draven rumbles. “What’s the _real_ reason you don’t approve, horseman? Is it because I’m dead? Because I'm not good enough for her? Or is it something-” He casts Death a knowing glower, "- _else_?" 

“Careful, Draven,” the horseman warns, “You’re treading in territory you really oughtn’t to be.”

Another sweep of his eyes over Death’s shoulder and Draven sees that you’ve said your goodbyes to Ostegoth and you’re now making your way over to the duo by the entrance of The Eternal Throne. Death follows his gaze and catches sight of you. Without a word, the horseman turns back to Draven and sends him the most heated glare he can muster before spinning on his heel and catching you by the shoulder, turning you around and walking you back in the direction you’d just come from. You make a small noise of shock and turn to look back at Draven, confused. Your lips tug into a worried frown when you spot how dejectedly he’s staring at his boots.

“Uh, Death? What was _that_ all about?”

The horseman shrugs and responds. “Draven and I were just having a little chat.”

“About _what_?” you press, “Poor guy looks heartbroken, what’d you say to him?”

Sighing at how on point your observation is, Death steers you towards the stairs he’d tried to climb earlier. “I simply told him something he didn’t want to hear.”

“Oh?”

“He wanted something from me, and I told him he couldn’t have it.”

You scowl up at the horseman as you ascend the wooden steps. “Are you ever going to give me a straight answer or do you just enjoy being this vague?”

Death hums a reply but doesn’t offer anything further, causing you to throw your hands up, exasperated.

From the other side of the courtyard, Draven watches the horseman’s hand on your shoulder and heaves out a ragged sigh. Far be it from him to go against a Rider’s wishes, especially if he wants to keep his head…But the Blademaster’s unbeating heart still manages to ache at the thought of you returning to Earth someday soon, never to see or even think of an old sod like him ever again. He should never have approached Death in the first place.


	2. The Undercroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blademaster has been avoiding you; you’re determined to find out why and get some advice from an unexpected source in the meantime.

There’s no way you could ever tell somebody that your new life with Death is boring. Each day brought new dangers, tremendous thrills, death-defying adventures and narrow escapes. To say that you were bored would either be a hilarious jest or an arrogant boast.

No, you’d _never_ admit to being bored.

At least, not out _loud_.

For perhaps the thirteenth time that afternoon, you heave a great sigh and glance up to see that the pale, eerily-green, crescent moon has barely travelled an inch in it’s journey across the vast sky since you last checked. That must have been an hour ago, surely? As though she were right there next to you, you remember one of your friends - who had it been again?- telling you with a wise smile, ‘Remember Y/n, a watched pot never boils.’

Harrumphing, you rest your chin against the wooden railing at the side of the Chancellor’s pedestal, at which the old ghost is still glaring at you vehemently, no doubt pissed off that you hadn’t found somewhere else to loiter. Somewhere preferably far away from him.

It was his own fault that you were stuck here alone. _He’d_ been the one to ask Death to take on the Soul Arbiter’s maze, a feat that the horseman had obviously decided was too dangerous for you. Ironic, considering that you’d faced far deadlier in your travels with him. If you were honest, you suspect that he’d left you behind this time because he knew about the injury you’re hiding. Just a minor thing, a huge bruise on your leg from a skeleton lord’s wayward kick, but it was enough to slow you down noticeably. Death had taken you straight back to the Eternal Throne without saying a word to you, conversed quietly with Ostegoth, then the Chancellor approached him and demanded he seek out the Arbiter.

So it was, you were left behind. Although you did happen to note a suspicious look shared between the Blademaster and the horseman as the latter stalked out of the gate. You’d have to ask him about that.

Normally, you wouldn’t have an issue with being left behind, but this time is different. This time, you _don’t_ have Draven to talk to.

Oh, he’s _there_ , certainly. Right in the training area, sparring with his recruits. But the last three times you and Death had stopped by the Dead Lands, Draven hadn’t even greeted you, or waved when _you_ waved. The first time that you realised something was _really_ wrong was when you’d called his name excitedly and began darting forwards for your usual embrace. Draven had taken one look at you, turned and walked away.

It damn near broke your heart.

Now, you watch him miserably from the Chancellor’s vantage point.

“If I’d have known you would be lingering about up here,” he suddenly pipes up, “I’d never have asked the horseman to kill the Arbiter.”

With a side-long glance at him, you shrug. “Yeah, well. Here I am. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I am an advisor to the Lord of Bones, and an esteemed member of the royal court. Not some _nursemaid_ to a wet nosed little human!” he seethes.

With a lofty roll of your eyes, you respond, “you know, you don’t have to stand there glowering at me. You could just, like, disappear. Isn’t that what ghosts _do_?”

The Chancellors mouth twitches into a condescending sneer. “And leave you up here to make a mess of things? Getting your grubby little fingers all over the place? Dirtying up my master’s throne room? I don’t think so.”

Casting your gaze over the balcony, you take in the inch-thick layer of dust that coats the wooden rails, the rickety, wood-wormed staircase and the decaying boards beneath your feet. All of it covered with decaying flakes of skin and dried blood. You raise an eyebrow and turn to lean back against the railing, facing the Chancellor. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. This place would be a dusty pig-sty in five _minutes_ if you left me alone. Thank _God_ his Majesty has you to run the place, eh?”

One of the guards at the door snorts, earning himself an ice-cold glare from the Chancellor. You shoot the former an amused smile before returning your attention to the angry ghost in front of you. He looks as though he’s itching for a verbal assault, but rather than incur the wrath of that wretched horseman, he simply huffs and folds his arms, annoyed. “Why _are_ you lounging about up here anyway?” He shoots the question as accusingly as he can, “I thought you’d be down there with that lout of a Blademaster?”

Ignoring his obvious attempt to rile you up by insulting your friend, you reply, “Well that’s just the thing! Lately, he’s been ignoring me. In fact, I think he’s actively _avoiding_ me.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the Chancellor remarks snidely.

“Right? It’s like he hates me now and I just….” You start to feel the telltale sting of tears behind your eyes so you turn around and lean your arms against the wooden railing again, sighing as you gaze out over the training area where Draven is maliciously laying into a poor recruit. “I just wish I knew what I did wrong.”

To the amazement of everyone involved, the Chancellor joins you at the balcony ledge and elegantly drapes his boney forearms over the wood with a thoughtful hum. “I admit, Draven has been in an exceptionally bad mood, of late,” he grumbles, “and he’s been _pacing_!”

You gasp. “The audacity!”

“It really is quite annoying,” the Chancellor agrees, “ _something_ must be done if I’m ever to have any peace.” He looks down at you appraisingly. “Therefore, I am proposing that _you_ fix this mess.”

“Me!?” you squawk, “Haven’t you been listening? Draven won’t even _look_ at me, what makes you think he’ll talk to me?”

“He needn’t talk to you, but _you_ must talk to _him_.”

“But he won’t listen!”

“Well then speak more loudly,” the Chancellor snaps, “If he refuses to hear you talk, then you must force him to hear you _shout_. You claim he already hates you, what else are you afraid will happen?”

Stunned, you stare up at him whilst he swivels his head out, surveying the courtyard and pointedly avoiding your eye. Slowly, a sly grin worms its way across your face. “Did….did you just give me actual, _helpful_ advice, Chancellor?”

The ghost sneers, pulling his thin lips back over decaying gums. “Not at all. This is simply an attempt to get you out of my hair.”

“What hair?”

“Hmph!”

You laugh, for once actually enjoying an exchange with the crotchety ghost. Dusting your hands off on your trousers, you stroll past him and head towards the staircase, throwing a casual wave over your shoulder.

“Well, thanks anyway. Wish me luck!”

“I shall do no such thing,” he calls back.

—

Getting up the nerve to approach Draven took a lot more effort than you’d previously assumed. It didn’t help that you could feel every dead-eyed resident of the Eternal Throne watching you as you saunter as casually as possible across the courtyard towards the training circle. Even the new recruits stopped sparring and elbowed one another, staring at you.

Draven follows their gaze, snarling when he notices that you are the object of their attentions. “Get back to training,” he barks, “Or I’ll have what’s left of your genitals.”

They all scurry back to their starting positions, one of them taking up a stance in front of the Blademaster and readying his sword.

You remain where you are, uncertain of what to say, but unwilling to leave well enough alone. Draven suddenly to thrust his sword at the bigger ghost, catching him off guard and forcing him into a clumsy parry. His pale eyes flicker over to you and he huffs when he sees that you’re still standing there awkwardly.

“What?” he grunts without stopping his upward swing.

Shuffling your feet, you shrug `and nonchalantly ask, “Just wondering if you had time to talk.”

“M’busy.”

“Oh…” You trail off, unsure of what else to say. From the corner of his eye, Draven watches you as he clenches his jaw tightly to distract himself from the anguish of seeing you so hurt. But after a moment, a determined glint shines in your eyes and you jut your chin out, looking up at the Blademaster imploringly. “Draven, if I’ve done something to offend you, will you at least tell me what it was, so I don’t do it again?”

He grits his teeth painfully. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls, swiping the recruit’s feet out from under him.

Exasperated, you stamp your foot. “Yes you _do_! You’ve been avoiding me ever since Death and I came here last month. You don’t talk to me, you won’t even _look_ at me!” As if to prove your point, you move to his front, determined to meet the ghost’s eye, only to find them fixed stubbornly on his opponent.

“Draven,” you plead, “what did I _do_?”

He remains silent, the flayed skin of his knuckles rendered even paler with how tightly he’s gripping his sword’s hilt. Determined not to let any of them, specifically _him_ , see the down-trodden tears behind your eyelashes, you nod and sniff, turning on your heel and walking briskly towards the undercroft.

With a deep groan, Draven turns his head slightly to watch you retreat into it. He catches sight of the intense, disapproving scowl that Ostegoth is sending his way and, perhaps most surprising of all, the fact that the Chancellor, of all people, is glaring hard at him, shaking his head.

You think this is your fault. No, _he_ _made_ you think this is your fault.

“Shit,” he mutters. He really thought that by pushing you away, you’d lose interest and stop trying so damn hard to be his friend. In that way, he could more easily hide his ever-growing love for you. The horseman would be happy, you’d eventually be happy. That just left Draven, but since when did _he_ deserve happiness?

To Hell with it. He’d rather risk the horseman’s anger than see you hurting for something you didn’t do. Besides, he’d missed you so much. This hideous charade made him feel like he was dying all over again. Perhaps, if he couldn’t love you as a lover, he could still love you as a friend.

“I’ve got to make this right, don’t I?” he asks nobody in particular, but the recruits around him give an answer all the same.

“Oh my God! Yes.”

“Finally!”

“Y/n’s been miserable for weeks!”

Draven gives them a sour but exhausted glare. “Alright, I get the point.” Sheathing his sword, he tells them to take five, then jogs quickly after you, trying his best to ignore all the eyes on the back of his head.

—

“Y/n?”

The voice draws your head up sharply from where it’s resting on your knees as you hunch behind a storage box in the Undercroft. Quietly, you hope that he doesn’t find you. You’re not sure he’s the right person to talk to you at the moment. But as your luck would have it, Draven’s hand gently tilts the box back and he sighs at the sight of you, sitting miserably on the dusty ground with fresh tears in your eyes.

“Ah, damn it.” Exhaling sharply, Draven steps back whilst you stand up and half-heartedly wipe your cheeks dry with the sleeve of your jumper.

“What?” you bite, “I thought you didn’t want to be around me anymore. What’re you doing down here? You know you’re giving off some pretty mixed signals, right?”

He starts to pick at the loose skin on the back of his hand, nodding sheepishly. “Yeah, and I think I’m about to give you a real head-scratcher.” ‘This is it,’ he thinks, 'what the Hell am I thinking?’

Without warning, he pushes forwards, forcing you backwards into the cold wall behind you. He nudges a leg between your knees to get even closer and bends his head down to your face.

Bewildered and rightly nervous, you stare at the Blademaster, wide-eyed. “Draven? I-I don’t-”

He cuts you off quite abruptly by closing the distance between your mouths and pressing a hasty, toothy kiss as best he can to your trembling lips. For the briefest of moments, Draven imagines that his heart skips a beat. He gently pulls away, looking at you with eyes full of love. But the look is lost too soon as a slow, horrified expression starts to dawn on his dead features instead.

Shocked silence is thick and tangible in the musty undercroft, broken only by the ghost’s sudden, frenzied back-pedalling. He shakes his head as he retreats hastily, muttering, “Oh no, what’ve I done? I shouldn’t have done that.”

At the sound of his voice, you will your heart to stop leaping around in your chest and lick your lips timidly. “Draven…You….you kissed me? I thought you _hated_ me?”

The Blademaster stops in his tracks, furrowing his brow and taking a step back in your direction. “Oh no. No, no, no. I never - I could never hate you. Y/n, I-” His fists raise to his chest and he thumps it weakly. “You make me feel like I’ve got a heart again. I didn’t think I could ever love anyone, but then I met you and….Shit. I think I might love you.”

Your mind draws a blank. “I….huh!?”

Even Draven resembles a deer caught in the headlights. He works his sharp canine into his tongue and grimaces. “Yeeaaaaah… I can’t believe I said that either. Out loud….With my mouth.”

“This is….wow,” you stammer, “that was a bit of a big turnaround there, Draven, I have to say.”

“I’m…” He sighs deeply. “….sorry.”

“No. Don’t be sorry.”

His head snaps up at your words, nearly dislodging the hood from his head.

Smiling, you continue. “It’s nice to hear that, especially now. I’d pretty much done away with love. But….” A shy grin tugs at the corners of your mouth and you take a few steps towards him. When you reach the ghost, you tentatively reach out a hand to touch his face. His eyes stare at your hand with an almost frightened expression. Delicately, you brush your fingers over the decaying skin of his cheek, being careful not to pull any of it away. Draven gives a content, choked moan and closes his eyes tightly, pushing his cheekbone harder into the palm of your hand.

“Draven, why didn’t you tell me?” you murmur.

“I-” He pauses, trying to think past the beautiful gentleness of your touch. He notices idly that you’re slowly rising up to his face with eyes half closed. Why _didn’t_ he tell you?

Oh. Right.

The horseman.

Extremely reluctantly, Draven steels himself and pulls away just as your lips brush against his jaw, feather-light. You fall back onto the flat of your feet and tilt your head at him, confused all over again. Once more, the Blademaster retreats, shaking his head.

“No. This is wrong,” he utters, “ _I’m_ wrong.”

Chasing after him carefully, you say, “ _What’s_ wrong? Draven, you’re not making any sense.”

“I _want_ this….But I **_can’t_** want this,” he rasps.

“Please…” You finally reach him but he suddenly reaches out and snatches your hands up in his.

“Y/n, there’s nothing in me that you want. Trust me. I’m not the man for you,” he laughs bitterly, “M’not even sure I am a man. Not anymore. You are so much more than I should _ever_ think I could have…”

Indignation and hurt rear their ugly heads again in your belly. “Who says? Listen, I think I’m old enough to know that I could well die tomorrow-”

“No, don’t you dare start thinking like that.”

“It’s true,” you insist, “You stand there, telling me you love me. Something I haven’t been told since this whole, sodding apocalypse shit went down, and you have the _gall_ to kiss me, then try to tell me that I don’t _want_ you? No. You don’t _get_ to decide that you’re not good enough for me.”

Before he can escape up the stairs in a cloud of self-depracation, you grab the fabric of his hood and give it a sharp yank. He stumbles as his head is jerked down, then stiffens when your lips finally make contact with his gums. His hands flail around for a moment or two, until they at last find their place on the curve of your hips.

He lets out a shuddering sigh, then surrenders.

Coaxing him onwards by offering your open mouth, you pant heavily when he takes the invitation and runs with it. His tongue is oddly dry and a little cold, but he smells of dried leaves, wet moss and tastes distinctly of pine. In all, it’s rather a bizarre experience to be kissing a dead guy, but bizarre is sort of the given state of your life right now.

You leave a soft, familiar taste against his tongue that he hasn’t known for centuries. The touch of your dry, cracked lips against the exposed bone below his nose is like a gust of fresh, spring air through his dusty, dead, old soul. If he could cry, he really might’ve.

Grunting as though pained, Draven pulls away to run his knuckles over your cheek. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly.

“Not really,” you admit, because it’s true. You don’t know if you do love Draven or if you’re just starved for affection and he’s willing to give it to you, yet the chance that you might regret kissing him doesn’t seem like enough of a reason to stop.

This is your life. Nobody else’s and for once, you don’t feel the overprotective shadow of Death at your shoulder. Giving the ghost a bold grin, you lean in to kiss him again. “But don’t you think we should at least find out? Just to be sure?”

He rumbles and pulls you flush against his chest possessively. “It would be my pleasure,” he agrees.

In the cold, dank darkness of the Undercroft, the human and the Blademaster find a moment of gentle peace, contented in each other’s company, if only for the tiniest of moments. He never thought he could be loved. Neither did you, for you thought any creature that _might_ have was long dead.

Well…Technically, you weren’t wrong.


	3. Guilty pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On lonely nights, Draven's thoughts inevitably turn to you.   
> And he hates himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, don’t get too excited. This is the first semi-smutty thing I have ever written. It’s sort of a continuation from part1 and part2 centred around the relationship between you and Draven. I literally don’t even know how to tag this.

Guilt.

That’s all he’s been feeling lately.

Guilt that he’d gone behind Death’s back.

Guilt that he’d kissed you and _especially_ that he’d done it the first time without even asking.

Guilt that a tyrant like him would ever think he could have _you_ ; his serendipity.

But more than anything, Draven curses, loathes and berates himself for laying down in his bunk each night and allowing his thoughts, and his _hands_ to wander.

Long, sickly-green fingers venture underneath the thin blanket, past the waistband of his trousers until they brush over the head of his sensitive manhood. On nights like this, he almost wishes it had rotted away like rest of him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be able to slander your name every night, hissing it out through tightly-clenched teeth with a blissful sigh.

Laying in the cot on a night as cool and still as this one, Draven finds it easy to recall the first time you’d stepped into the Eternal Throne’s courtyard, trailing timidly behind your imposing bodyguard.

 

Across the training area, your tired eyes swept slowly until they eventually locked with his, so reminiscent of a bad Shakespearean sonnet. When his pale, green gaze met yours, he could swear his non-existent pulse began to race.

Your skin had been covered in a thin sheen of sweat and grime. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, exhaustion evident in the thick, dark bags beneath them.

Lips chapped from the merciless desert wind, hair knotted and scraggly, you’d stumbled past him, nearly tripping over your own feet and by God; you were quite possibly the single most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who’d thought so.

Word of the human spread like wildfire through the whole court and soon enough, a small crowd of curious undead had gathered at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to their king’s throne room.

 

Draven smirks at the memory, recollecting how Death had stomped down the wooden steps with you in tow, then started at the sight of so many corpses blocking his path. The Blademaster, of course, hung back, watching curiously as the horseman’s arm instinctively flew out to prevent you from descending further.

After a beat of silence, the eager questions started to flow.

‘What the _Hell_ is a living human doing in the dead lands?’!’

'Are you _really_ a human!?’

'What’s your name?’

'I heard Earth was destroyed. How’d you get _here_?’

'Can I touch your hair?’

'You’ve still got all your skin! Oh, I miss _my_ skin.’

It was your nervous, uncertain, distressed expression that motivated Draven to march to your rescue. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, or what was left of it. Maybe you’d be grateful that he’d saved you from the incessant questions. Maybe you’d talk to him! Maybe even to the point that you’d start calling him your friend! Invigorated by the prospect of being seen as the hero, for a change, the Blademaster muscled his way through the throng of raw recruits, shouldering them aside and snapping commandingly, “Alright, that’s enough. Give ‘er some space and get back to your posts!”

Grumbling, the crowd reluctantly dispersed, some of them throwing casual waves which you shakily returned.

Draven grunted, satisfied before turning to offer you his hand. “Sorry about that,” he chuckled. From the corner of his eye, he saw the horseman bristle, hackles raised. You didn’t seem to notice though, glancing down at Draven’s hand instead.

For a second, he was suddenly struck with the realisation that you might be repulsed by the sight of it, what with the sinewy muscle and tendons poking through the gaps in his decayed flesh. But to his astonishment, you’d merely given him a friendly grin and slipped your soft, warm fingers between his in an all-too familiar gesture.

 

The Blademaster’s eyes fly open at the memory of your palm pressed against his own. Grunting, he shifts in the cot and tries to imagine that it’s your hand tenderly stroking him beneath the scratchy blanket; a feat that proves difficult because he can still recall how smooth your skin was, a stark contrast to the rough callousness of his.

Disgust writhes in his throat. He feels sinful, touching himself with the same hand that you’d so delicately held. His thumb strokes gently over his tip, just as yours might. You really had such small, fragile hands….“A-ah! _Shit_ ,” he hisses into the darkness.

Hurling aside the moment of self-depreciation, he starts to imagine you settling yourself hesitantly over his face with your soft thighs barely grazing the sides of his exposed cheekbones. Shamefully, but still unable to help himself, he vividly pictures his tongue - the same tongue that had commanded armies, that had spilled dreams of conquering the world, that had inspired and rallied his men to the point where they’d die for him – gently, so, _so_ softly and tenderly caressing the most delicate part of you.

Draven, for all his brashness and hubris, prided himself on being a very conscientious lover when he was alive. He would tell you he loved you with his tongue, all without uttering a single word.

In the end, perhaps the most sinful atrocity he commits every time he does this, he lets himself go to the image of that innocent first smile you’d given him. You’d smiled at him, and _him_ alone.

The ghost moans in blissful contentment as he finally hits his peak, revelling in the hazy aftershocks that follow, a coveted prelude to the onslaught of regret and hatred.

Laying in the dark, feeling the pleasure slowly drain from his body, Draven braces himself. But it’s no use.

A raging torrent of thoughts bombards his psyche so violently, he snarls, grinding his teeth into dust and throwing an arm over his eyes.

Any trace of tear ducts had long since rotted away. Physically, the undead can not produce tears. But they can _remember_ and they can _feel_ the ache behind their eyes.

Miserable, Draven let out a strangled sob, angrily smashing his free hand into the wooden head board behind him for any kind of release.

How could he _do_ something like this? How could he think you would want _him_ the same way.

The horseman was right. You were just lonely, desperate to feel _some_ semblance of a connection with another creature who used to be human.

Draven just happened to be there and he just _happened_ to be the closest thing to human you’d got. As such, you’d mistaken something else for love.

You wouldn’t ever love him. How could you? You were simply in love with the concept of _having_ someone to love.

Through the slats of his half boarded window, the Blademaster watches the sky lighten, fiery reds bleeding beautifully into the indigo night.

Yesterday evening, Ostegoth had sent word that the horseman was on his way back to the land of the dead. That meant you would be coming too. With an almighty sigh, Draven heaves himself up in the cot, swings his legs over the side and scratches at the flaking skin on his chin. He knows that today, he’ll get up, don his gear, go out into the training yard and maybe teach the latest recruits a few basic techniques, all whilst going over the speech in his head. The speech in which he’d pull you to the side and tell you that the kiss you’d shared in the undercroft was a mistake. He’d tell you that he’s not interested, that he’s found someone else, that he’s no good for you…

But then, you’d bound through the entrance of the Eternal Throne as you do every time and you’d call his name excitedly before rushing towards him for a quick embrace. He would have to look down into your trusting eyes and feel your hands clutch at his forearms, feeling just as smooth and soft as he remembered them being in his filthy fantasies.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to nobody. The dust particles dancing in the light from his window are disturbed slightly by his quiet apology. Standing from his bed, Draven stretches, wincing at the cracking of his exposed bones and makes his way out of the door. He so needed to tell you that you mustn’t be with him, for your own sake. But every single sodding time he sees you, he loses what nerve he’s scrabbled together since the last time you were together. This time will be no different. He’ll pretend that nothing has changed, as though he doesn’t fall into a fitful slumber each night with your name ghosting past his sallow lips. As if he hasn’t pictured rolling over in the morning to see your kind face sleeping right beside him, instead of waking up alone in a cold, empty bed.

God have mercy, you could never find out about this.

Oh Christ - _Death_ could never find out about this.


End file.
